Opening his eyes, he caught sight of a moth resting on the ceiling—a creature that couldn’t think, driven solely by light, which he didn’t care for much. In the past, he would often see them slamming themselves against windowpanes until they died, smearing into a pale, messy residue.
A faintly sweet, metallic taste surged up from his throat, reminiscent of those moth wings slowly rotting against the glass.
He took a deep breath. This time, I might really die, he thought. That woman—who seemed to be his new master’s sister—was truly furious.
He had long lost all sense of time and space. Being ordered to feed the star beasts felt like it happened on a Sunday—the day with the most guests. After being taken out by that kind-hearted master, he had no idea how much time had passed…
That master, whom the old man sleeping next to him babbled about like a savior—no, Mr. Chu—had told him to wait until he returned.
Closing his eyes, he counted his own heartbeats and breathed deeply, refusing to look at the moth struggling against the incandescent lightbulb.
The rusty iron door swung open with a raspy groan. The sound of boot soles stepping across the floor drew nearer, but he didn’t move.
It might be a different person, but it would inevitably be the exact same questions: Who on earth are you? What are you trying to do? Where were you trying to run off to? What is your relationship with Ying Yu? What did Ying Yu instruct you to do?
He didn’t know. Or rather, he couldn’t remember.
His memory began with the searing pain of a branding iron against his neck, packed alongside countless trembling people inside a cage. The boss had yanked his hair and said, “He’s actually a high-grade Alpha! Struck it rich—his pheromones alone are worth a fortune.”
He tried hard to recall things that could make him happy: fresh air, the starry sky seen through glass, the occasional piece of bread he was given… and that piece of candy Mr. Chu had handed him.
How pathetic, he heard an inner voice say.
“Twice now… how truly pathetic,” a gentle yet slightly helpless voice sounded above his head. “You better not provoke Xiao Qi ever again.”
Taking a deep breath, he snapped his eyes open, yet could see nothing clearly. Blood had crusted over his eyes earlier, leaving his field of vision tinted in an unsettling, agitated red.
A cool yet soothing sensation touched his eyes. Slowly, he made out the handsome, gentle features of the man in front of him. The man was leaning so close that he could even catch the sharp scent of frost and snow emanating from him.
Lowering his gaze to avoid Chu Yanyi’s eyes, he struggled to sit up, only to be stopped by Chu Yanyi.
“Stay lying down if you still have injuries on you. I’ll have the doctor check on you in a moment.”
Chu Yanyi casually tossed aside the blood-stained handkerchief, leaned on his cane to rise slowly, and let out two light coughs. The initial design of this room made it completely airtight; not even an insect had managed to fly in during this period, making staying here quite unpleasant.
He sat down on a chair brought over by his subordinate, staring at the battle-scarred Alpha below.
“When she gets upset, she even scolds me along with everyone else. Fortunately, nothing happened to Ah Qing; otherwise, I really wouldn’t have been able to hold her back. I heard about your situation from her, and I think it’s her fault.”
“After all, you don’t remember anything. With her treating you like that out of nowhere, you were bound to be scared. Right, Zhou Yi?”
Hearing that name, the man’s eyelashes trembled. His dry, cracked lips twitched twice, yet he still didn’t speak or utter any sound whatsoever.
Chu Yanyi bent down, grasping his deformed right hand: “Rest up properly first. Stop thinking about all those random things. Once your injuries have mostly healed, I’ll have someone send you away from here.”
A hard object was pressed into his hand. Zhou Yi shuddered violently, snapping his head up, his gaze unexpectedly colliding straight with Chu Yanyi’s.
Chu Yanyi’s pupils reflected a clear, lucid blue under the light, as if another sky were mirrored upon the ocean’s surface. He smiled softly, yet Zhou Yi couldn’t trace a single shred of emotion in those eyes—no anger, no solace, not even a trace of cold indifference.
Zhou Yi’s heart sank abruptly. Opening his mouth, he realized that even if he knew how to speak, he couldn’t find any excuse to offer.
In his limited understanding, no master would let an escaped slave go, nor would any master ever like an escaped slave.
What was I thinking back then? How could I be so ungrateful?
“Since you’ve forgotten everything, innocent people shouldn’t be dragged into the grievances between Ying Yu and me.”
“Rest assured.”
Surrounded by the man’s woodsy pheromone scent—resembling a cool morning breeze—Zhou Yi strained to curl his twisted fingers around the candy Chu Yanyi had handed him, eventually falling asleep without realizing it.
In the final moment before his consciousness drifted away, he saw that moth charge toward the lightbulb, shattering itself to pieces.
“Are you sure you want to do this? Kill Ying Yu?” He woke up, scenes from a dream floating up in his mind. A man sat in front of him, his voice detached with a hint of mockery. He couldn’t see the man’s face clearly, remembering only the eyes when their gazes met.
Clear blue pupils that made Zhou Yi unconsciously think of unrelated things: eagles, mint, lit cigars…
They were not Mr. Chu’s eyes.
Over the next few days, Zhou Yi didn’t see Chu Yanyi again. Every day, he stayed quietly on the hospital bed, staring listlessly out the window for half a day at a time. He had zero communication with the visiting doctors and servants, complying obediently with whatever he was told to do.
Yet nobody knew what was going on in his mind.
The door was opened from the outside. Zhou Yi glanced at the people walking in, then turned his head back to look at the scenery outside the window.
“Sign this. Once you’re done signing, tell me where you want to go, and I’ll send you there,” Chen Ke tossed a document onto the blanket. “You can still read, right?”
Lacking the wild joy Chen Ke had anticipated, the battle-scarred slave froze, using his left hand to slowly flip the document open, only to stiffen on the spot.
Chen Ke waited for a while without seeing any movement from him, his brows furrowing impatiently: “Oh. Since your right hand can’t write, leaving a thumbprint is fine too. It’s not like the law requires a slave’s signature on documents granting citizenship anyway.”
Zhou Yi stared at line after line of text. He recognized every word, but the impact of them combined was simply overwhelming.
Upon seeing the sharp, distinct, and forcefully structured characters of “Chu Yanyi,” he clenched his teeth, pulled out the pen attached to the document, bit off the cap with difficulty, and crookedly signed “Zhou Yi” on the other side.
Since Mr. Chu said his name was Zhou Yi, then his name was Zhou Yi.
“Done,” Chen Ke snapped his fingers, taking back the document before Zhou Yi could react. “Then let’s head out. Give me an address.”
Zhou Yi seemed slow to process it, sitting motionless on the bed, his fingers remaining in their original position.
After a moment, he pointed toward the door, frantically making gestures at Chen Ke.
Why didn’t Mr. Chu come? Where did Mr. Chu go?
“What does he mean?” Chen Ke turned around and asked the doctor behind him.
The doctor shook his head: “I have no idea where he learned his sign language. It’s certainly not standard Imperial or Federal sign language, so we can’t understand it either. He probably wants to ask about something, right?”
Chen Ke pressed his earpiece and let out a “tch”: “What a hassle. If we don’t send him away before Mr. Chu returns, we’ll be scolded for being incompetent. Should we ask Miss Chu what to do?”
Biting his lip, Zhou Yi pulled out the slightly melted candy from under his pillow, then pointed to himself and the document in Chen Ke’s hand.
“Are you asking about… Mr. Chu?” Chen Ke looked down at the signature on the document, shrugging. “Mr. Chu isn’t that free. If he hadn’t altered his itinerary because of you, he should still be in the First District right now, meaning he can only be doubly busy. Alright, I’m very busy too—where exactly do you want to go?”
Zhou Yi keenly picked up on the disdain and complaints in the other’s tone.
Grasping the candy, he suddenly calmed down. The view outside the window wasn’t particularly nice anyway—or rather, it couldn’t even be called a view. There was no sunlight, only unchanging snow and dark clouds pressing down on bare branches.
“Mr. Chu, here are the handwriting analysis results. Although he wrote it with his left hand, it is indeed the handwriting of the same person,” Chen Ke returned to Chu Yanyi’s main office in the Third District. He waited outside for a moment until the guests left before handing over the report along with the document.
Chu Yanyi nodded and removed his earpiece. The signature Zhou Yi wrote with his left hand was stiff and slanted, clearly not written by his dominant hand.
In recent days, besides investigating on his own, he had also commissioned Yunhen to find the corresponding person using Xiao Yi’s fingerprints and DNA.
An Alpha named Zhou Yi.
What a peculiar name.
As the largest intelligence organization in the Empire, once Yunhen was provided with the fingerprints and various details by Chu Yanyi, the retrieved records were extraordinarily comprehensive—even listing minor details like which planet and hospital in the Empire Zhou Yi was born in, along with lab reports containing Zhou Yi’s handwritten signature from his university days.
An orderly, unremarkable life that was almost boring to read through.
The time when this Zhou Yi overlapped with Ying Yu appeared to be during his university years. Chu Yanyi’s gaze rested on Zhou Yi’s educational background: Ying Yu had once funded this university located on Planet Blue of the Empire, and Zhou Yi, whose parents had died in an accident, happened to be one of the students receiving financial aid.
After graduating from university, Zhou Yi’s resume was a complete blank.
No friends, no family; from then on, Zhou Yi’s sole connection to the world appeared to be Ying Yu alone.
“Did he display any unusual behavior when he left?” Chu Yanyi activated the virtual screen, where dozens of surveillance feeds overlapped, all featuring this slouching Alpha wearing a hood to varying degrees.
As dusk settled, the Alpha stood blankly in the middle of the street. His left hand held a bag given by Chen Ke while naturally clutching his right hand. People passed by him in streams, the expression on his face looking as if he were sleepwalking.
Many cast scornful glances due to the brand on his neck that wasn’t fully covered, while others held their noses and walked away quickly, not forgetting to throw in a sarcastic remark.
Buildings large and small seemed drenched in wind and snow, and a thin layer of snow gradually accumulated on the man’s shoulders. Whether it was Chu Yanyi’s imagination or not, the Alpha seemed to be shivering.
“No, just as you said, he seemed to try to stall for time until your return. Since he wouldn’t say where he wanted to go, I brought him to the Third District port according to plan and urged him off the car using an excuse. There are plenty of our people around, so other families won’t notice for now,” Chen Ke said softly.
Chu Yanyi turned the ring on his left ring finger: “It’s been so long, yet he has been standing there the whole time without initiating conversation with anyone or heading anywhere… However, go look into the background of these few people who approached to talk to him.”
“Understood.” Chen Ke pursed his lips. He knew Chu Yanyi was deeply suspicious by nature; even after following him for so many years, Chu Yanyi wouldn’t necessarily inform him or anyone else of all his plans. Yet, when dealing with this former lover of Ying Yu, he always felt there was something different about Chu Yanyi.
“Also, check…” Chu Yanyi bent his fingers and tapped the table, “…what time tonight the snow will be at its heaviest.”